


archivist sasha. it's what she deserves

by taylor_tut



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Archivist Sasha James, Chronic Illness, Chronic Pain, Exhaustion, Gen, Headaches & Migraines, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Has EDS | Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist has POTS | Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 10:47:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29349150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taylor_tut/pseuds/taylor_tut
Summary: Jon struggles with POTS headaches and the team does their best.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 108





	archivist sasha. it's what she deserves

"Jon, why don't you just go lie down in Sasha's office?" Martin asks. "She's got a couch and I'm sure she wouldn't mind you using it." 

Jon shakes his head, ignores the way it makes the dizziness worse. "I'll be fine," he replies. He's only got to make it through three more hours, after all, before he can get home and lie down properly. He can make it through that.

"Scared of looking like a slacker in front of the new boss?" Tim teases, but there's an edge of concern to it. He's seen, after all, how quickly Jon can go from "I might need to lie down" to "surprise! You're lying down," and he's definitely nearing it, if the pallor of his face and the permanent grimace are anything to go by. 

"Of course not," Jon snaps. "I know Sasha wouldn't be angry; I just. Don't need to. Not yet." 

"But--"

"Okay, Jon," Tim interjects, speaking over Martin and ignoring the indignant look it earns him. "Just let us know." 

Tim follows Martin into the break room when he makes tea. He knows he's upset, or at the very least, confused, but Jon is complex, and Martin is in a critical place right now in which Jon is still trying to figure out if he can trust him. Tim firmly believes the answer is "yes," but one wrong move might really slow down the process, and Tim knows Martin's pining ass doesn't want that. 

"Hey, Marto," he greets casually, leaning against the counter next to him as he switches on the electric kettle and fishes around in the drawers for tea bags. Tim gestures to the second cup. "For Jon, I guess?" 

Martin rolls his eyes. "Of course it is. Lord knows he's not going to take care of himself, so someone has to, right?" 

Tim runs a hand through his hair. "Listen. With Jon, you've got to be... gentle with this sort of thing. He doesn't try to be such a mess. He is, undoubtedly, and he makes worse choices than anyone I know. But, without discussing too much of his private life, some things are beyond his control. And you can't assume he's not trying. Sometimes, no amount of trying is going to make it easier." 

Martin blinks a few times. "Jon's... ah. I guess that. I mean, I figured, I suppose, or should have?” Jon is barely 30 and uses a cane, after all, often has days when he doesn’t leave his desk and Tim does all his running around the Institute for him, hardly sleeps and sometimes goes weeks when he won’t break for lunch, 

"He'll open up to you eventually," Tim reassures. "That's hard for him, too. I don't think he's always had the best experiences with being open and honest." 

Maritn flinches. "Should I not bring him tea, then? Would that be coddling him too much?"

Tim laughs. "It'd be weird if you didn't bring him any, at this point. He looks forward to it." He laughs even harder when that turns Martin's face bright red. "I just don't want you to feel discouraged. Jon will open up. Slowly." 

"Like a cat." 

Tim smiles ear to ear. "Exactly like a cat. But if you touch too much just as he begins to expose his underbelly, you'll pull away a fingerless hand, so. Caution. Baby steps." 

"Read the room, you're saying." 

Tim nods. Though that had never been Martin's strongest suit, he's sure he can manage, because Jon, for all his prickly attitude and put-on pompousness, is actually quite easy to read. He never says anything he doesn't mean and he rarely holds his tongue. 

"Martin," Tim calls as he carries away the tea mugs, nearly dropping both when Tim tosses a small packet of biscuits toward him and he catches it between his arm and his chest. "Tell him those are from me, and he'd better eat them." 

Exhaustion has a way of coloring everything else it touches, and Jon's life has become steeped in it, bitter and dyed a hazy, ugly brown like a scorched cup of tea. Stress becomes exhaustion-stress, making things that are usually afterthoughts their own overwhelming tasks. Irritation becomes exhaustion-irritation, snappish comments covering frustrated tears that threaten to spring up from his core. 

And tired: tired becomes Tired. 

And Jon is Tired. 

He’s pressing the palms of his hands against his eyes until he sees colors exploding in front of them, the pressure relieving a bit of the tension temporarily, when he feels a hand gently rest on his shoulder. 

“Jon,” Martin calls, and he doesn’t bother removing his hand when he hums in acknowledgement. “Alright?”

“Yes.” 

Martin nods. “I’ve, erm, brought you a cup of tea. And Tim told me to make sure you eat these.” He sets the biscuits on the desk. 

“Hm. Later.” 

“I think he’d feel better if you tried to have at least one. You might--might feel better?” He pauses, remembering what Tim had told him. “But, obviously, you don’t have to—”

“No, no. You’re right. I should.” When he pulls his hands away from his face, Martin can see the tired bruises beneath them, the red rimmed exhaustion in them. 

He bites his tongue. 

“Can I get anything for you?” 

He shakes his head. “You’ve done more than enough,” he says. “I. I appreciate it.” 

“You know you can talk to me, right?” 

Jon blinks. “I’m talking to you, now.” 

Martin rolls his eyes. “Not what I mean. You can, can tell me things. When you’re tired. Or unwell. Even when you don’t want help, or solutions, or to tell me everything. You can just talk, and I’ll listen.” 

He’s quiet for so long that Martin assumes that’s his answer, but just before he’s ready to give up and walk away, Jon sighs. 

“I just haven’t been sleeping so well,” he admits. “I’ve--my health isn’t the greatest--things like. Like not sleeping regularly can spiral a bit.” 

“What does spiraling mean?” 

Jon shrugs. “I start to have more pain, more headaches. Makes it harder to sleep, to eat. Bit cyclic, I suppose.” 

“Is there anything we can do to make it easier?”

And that’s enough; that’s as much opening as Jon can handle. The unstable house begins to shake and he needs to shut the window before the whole thing collapses in on itself. 

“You don’t have to worry,” he reassures. “Thank you for the tea. I’ve got work to do.” 

Martin feels a bit of whiplash, but he does his best to cover it up. “Sure. Of course. I’ll let you get back to it.” 

He leaves Jon alone. 

Eventually, Jon caves. He feels guilty for it, feels weak for it, but there’s no way that he’s going to get any work done if he keeps up as he is. All he needs is a few minutes to lie flat, to wait for his paracetamol to kick in so he can finish the rest of the work day. 

He knocks on Sasha’s office door. 

“Come in,” she calls, even though the door isn’t even fully shut. She never closes it completely unless she’s recording. He pushes the door open, wincing at the lights in her office, and she sets down her pen. “Are you feeling alright, Jon? You look peaky.” 

He hesitates. “I, erm. I’m fine, but I was wondering if perhaps I could use your couch? Just for 10 minutes or so; I don’t need long.” 

She’s quick to get to her feet to remove the things she’d stacked on top of the couch: a jacket, folders, a recorder and tapes, her laptop bag. No one ever uses the couch, anyway. 

“Of course. Do you mind if I ask why?” 

He takes a knee while he waits for her to clear away the clutter. “Just a headache,” he replies, “but it’s not going to go away until I lie down.” 

She nods. “Do you need me to leave? I can take your desk for a bit if you need quiet, or to turn off the lights.” 

“No, no. Nothing like that. Just--lying down will help.” He’s digging fingers into his shoulders, and she doesn’t push it. 

“Alright. Have you taken anything for it? Would it help?” 

“I’ll really be fine. I’m sorry about the intrusion.” 

“It’s not a problem,” she dismisses. Once the couch is cleared off, he slowly moves to sit, then lie back on it, tossing one arm over his eyes. Sasha frowns. “Are you sure that you don’t want me to get out of here for a while?” 

“I’ll make up the time,” Jon changes the subject. “Stay late today, I mean.” 

“Not necessary.” 

“Then I’ll work through lunch.” 

“Jon, you do that, anyway.” 

“Well, then, you can dock my pay—”

“Hey,” she interrupts him gently. “Don’t worry about that right now, okay? Just focus on feeling better. Work can wait.” 

Though she’s sure he’s not satisfied, Jon doesn’t argue further, which tells her exactly how much he needs this break. Once he looks comfortable, she slips out, anyway, to occupy his desk and give him a chance to stay comfortably in the quiet dark. She’s still trying to navigate the new promotion herself, and learning this about her assistant feels like a much more important start than any of the archiving training she’s done so far. 


End file.
